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Just
because I hail from Beaumont
in southeast Texas doesn't
mean I haven't been exposed to people of high caliber starting at
a very young age. Yep, I have mingled and hobnobbed with some pretty
big names, even if I was way too young to know it in about half
of those times, and even if the distance between me and the rich
and famous was way out of elbow rubbing range. I'm no rube, you
know.
For instance, at about the tender age of five, I was taken to a
nighttime appearance of the Cisco Kid and his sidekick, Pancho.
They were my Saturday matinee idols, and I yearned to be a cowgirl
with my own pony. Their appearance in Beaumont
had been advertised for some unrecalled time before their arrival,
and I don't even know if I asked to go or if my mother just assumed
I would love to go. The venue was the baseball stadium some blocks
from our house, Stuart Stadium. The crowd was huge, or so it felt
since I was low to the ground and everyone over 7 towered over me.
We didn't get to meet either star, and I remember nothing but the
pressing, milling crowd and of squalling my self into near hysterics
because I failed to get an autographed picture of Cisco on his horse,
Diablo, and one of Pancho. My mother was pretty fed up with me and
she was fully prepared to drag me bodily to the car, I think, when
2 wonderful teenage girls saved the day. They bent over me with
words of comfort that I have no recollection of, and one of them
handed me her black and white glossy of the Kid on his rearing horse.
It was signed by both stars, and Cisco left a little green horseshoe
beneath his signature. Green ink. I was enthralled. Distracted,
too, no doubt. I'm sure my mother wanted to adopt them both and
leave my snotty little carcass on the parking lot for the buzzards
to pick. I still had that 8 x 10 when I packed to go off to nursing
school and consigned it to the wastebasket, stupidly.
Another of my brushes with greatness, if you can call it that, is
one of which I have absolutely NO recollection, and I'll just have
to depend on my brother Butch to certify, sort of, to this. Heck,
he was only another year older, and he probably doesn't actually
remember the event, either, but our Dad told him about it on a number
of occasions in later years, I think. We were both dandled on the
knees of a very well known and powerful racketeer of great stature,
whatever that meant, from "back East", who was in town conferring
with Dad and Uncle Jake, owner and managing staff of the rackets
between the eastern edge of Galveston County and into Western Louisiana
up to about New Orleans, on "business". I don't even want to know
what business they might have discussed.
Later on in life, I may have been 7 or 8, I was introduced to the
well known Western Swing fiddler and bandleader Cliff Bruner. He
came to our house on Emile to collect the monthly premium on an
insurance policy my mother had with his agency, back when agents
actually did that. He was a friendly man, smiling and animated,
wearing dress slacks, a starched sort sleeved white shirt and a
tie. He and my mother laughed and even danced a few steps between
the dining room and living room. No doubt I looked puzzled until
Mama started stomping her foot and belting out the intro to "Milk
Cow Blues". That's when she told me that he was a famous band leader
and this was one of his songs. Then I could relate. Cliff Bruner
was my Mama's insurance agent. Wow.
My next "brush" with the rich and famous took place at my nursing
school graduation in May 1972. I had gone to the University of Texas
Medical Branch in Galveston,
but the full ceremony was held in Austin
with every other May graduate of every other nursing AND all other
schools. The guest speaker at the nursing school commencement was
none other than Mrs. Lady Bird Johnson herself. I was very impressed,
I must say. After the indoor ceremony my mother, stepfather, sister-in-law,
aunt and I assembled on the grounds of whatever building the ceremony
had been held for a photo op. Translation: the cheapest of the Kodak
Instamatic camera line operated by Bill, my stepfather. He kept
telling me to move to the left, move to the right, back up, step
back some more, step FURTHER back. All of a sudden I was sandwiched
between two giants in suits who whisked me waaaayyyy off to one
side. It seems I had gotten much too close to Mrs. Johnson and her
Secret Servicemen took umbrage. I blame Bill entirely for this unnerving
incident. That's okay, he got one blistering tongue lashing from
Estelle. I say it served him right.
My last interaction with a celebrity was in April 1974. Honolulu,
my first real vacation, two weeks in the islands with my best friend
since nursing school days. We were in some very fancy restaurant
where a roast chicken dinner was going to cost us $7.95, sticker
shock to us both, and I spotted the actor Rory Calhoun. He was sitting
at a table that was set against a wall and several tiers above the
rest of the diners. I grabbed my camera (see Instamatic in previous
incident), a pocketful of flash cubes and my Dutch courage consisting
of one partially consumed, lurid turquoise, horribly sweet mixed
drink with a paper umbrella stuck in it. I approached, asked very
deferentially if I could have some pictures and was told by the
highly intoxicated gent that I could have one, only one, and "For
G--'s sake, don't blind me with that d--n flash!" I was shocked
out of my sandals, intimidated to the maximum and did the only thing
I could do. I stepped up on the lower tier, pointed that little
Instamatic with the flash cube directly at him, snapped the picture
in his face, huge flash and all, and scooted away to the sound of
epithets hurled at my back.
Brushes with fame have eluded me since then. Fine with me.
© Frances Giles
"True Confessions and Mild Obsessions"
April 14, 2015 Column
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